


Little Boots

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A story about two women doing it disguised as a meditation on grief and guilt, Drunk Sex, F/F, Implied Violence, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 03:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12597216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: So rude-- she’s no-good!  But… she certainly plays to win.





	Little Boots

**Author's Note:**

> The quote in the summary comes from the Roxy Music song, Flesh and Blood.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

You must be losing your sense of humor.  
“It’s a little bit early for the Easter parade,” Cherry grins, swooping into view. Alcohol makes everything duller and bigger, so her mouth looks too large to you, her expression watery, ghoulish.  
You raise your eyebrows. “What?”  
Silently, still smiling, Cherry opens the door to her office wider, onto a young woman in a wide-brimmed, slightly old fashioned hat. It wasn’t a very funny joke, but there was a time when you would have laughed, anyway, just because you liked to laugh.  
“Lady here to see you,” Cherry says, her expression now softer, curious and knowing at once.  
“Thank you,” you say, move yourself forward, let Cherry close the door behind you.  
The woman in the hat stands. “Dr. Thompkins,” she says soberly, and extends her hand, “I’m Sofia Falcone.”  
You blink. The feeling that pours over you is like perfume, many separate components fusing into something entirely new. It’s dread that lingers, though. And shame.  
“I’m sorry that we never had a chance to meet. Before.”  
“What are you doing here?” you ask, then close your eyes. You feel your face and throat heat up. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. How did you find me? How did you find this place?”  
“It took some doing,” Sofia says, turns around, paces a few steps, and turns back, holding one gloved hand in the other. “My father’s name opens a lot of doors, though.”  
“Yeah, well, some of those doors aren’t worth opening.”  
“I’ll get to the point. I think that we could help each other.”  
“Help each other.”  
“I know that the scope of your professional life extends beyond this place,” she holds out her hands, and looks up, smiling slightly in amusement or contempt, you don’t know which, “Your clinic may be the only medical care those poor people receive. I want to fund you, fund it.”  
“So, how do you want me to help you?”  
“You’re right about the doors that my father’s name can open, and you’re right that they should stay closed. That’s not the life that I want for myself. I’m here in Gotham to make a positive difference. Associating the Falcone name with such a good cause would go a long way toward closing those doors to the past permanently.”  
You fold your arms over your chest. “You mean that it’s good PR.”  
“That’s one way to look at it. I want to do something important, something real.”  
“Atone for your father’s sins,” you sniff.  
The look she gives you is wide open, painfully clear. Calculated to wound. “We’re all atoning for something.” You let it wound you. But, then, it seems to wound her, too.  
“What else?”  
“I’ve opened a children’s home. I’d like you to serve on the board of directors.”  
You laugh.  
“Why is that funny?”  
You can’t tell her. You can’t explain. Where you’ve been. What you’ve done. Even as you’re sure that she already knows. There’s nothing you could hide from her, you realize with electric clarity. It should be enough to sober you up, but, no-- you sink deeper into intoxication. You feel your eyelids drift down. When you open your eyes again, she still has you fixed with her great, dark eyes. You shake your head. “It’s not funny. I just can’t believe that this is a coincidence.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“You didn’t pick my name out of the phone book.”  
She turns around, then back. “That’s true. It’s a peculiar thing- having history with someone you’ve never even met. Terrible things have happened,” she shakes her head, “but as in most tragedies, no one is truly to blame. Certainly not you. You’ve suffered, too.” Her eyes shine.  
Against your will, against all reason, you feel yourself soften. “I need to know more.”  
“Of course. We can set up a meeting, and my associates and I will make a formal presentation.”  
“I mean-” What do you mean? “I mean, I want-” What in God’s name do you want, Leslie? “I want to-” What can you want, when you’ve already taken everything? “Please, let me take you out to dinner. I want to hear about this from you, first; no spin, no numbers, no contracts.”  
“Dinner,” Sofia says, as though unfamiliar with the concept, but pleasantly surprised by its existence. “Yes, I’d like that. And I do want to tell you about the children’s home. It’s a cause that’s become very important to me.”  
The time and place are decided. Before she leaves, she takes your hand in hers, and doesn’t shake it, but holds it for a moment. Looking into your eyes, she says, “I know we’re going to do great things together.” As she leaves, you’re still pinned to the spot. Smiling, she looks over her shoulder. When she’s totally receded from your sight, you sink, you positively fall, into a chair. You feel like a condemned woman. Your life is over, but yet- you can’t wait to see what will happen next.

At the appointed hour, a car is waiting for you outside your home. The interior is dimly lit, richly-upholstered, and locks out all the sound of the outside world. It’s the feeling of being taken on a long, strange voyage, to an undiscovered country. Merrily, you roll along. Over the deep, blue sea.  
Of course, you’ve realized that she probably means to kill you. Briefly, you felt awful about thinking it, but you’d be a fool to allow yourself to be too dainty, get too sentimental. It’s not a matter of trying to find a way to stop her, but of simply being honest with yourself. If you’re going to meet your doom, it’s better to just accept it. How much did you lose because you refused to face what was right in front of you? It takes some fumbling, but you find the minibar, hidden behind an upholstered panel. By the time you’re deposited at the hotel, you think nothing, and you feel nothing.  
In a private part of the restaurant, she’s waiting for you. You’re drawn from the brightness and sparkle into the soft, cool darkness of her chamber. She stands, smiling gladly, and again takes your hand in hers. Her gloves are elbow-length. Fleetingly, you wonder what’s beneath them. If she’s touched so much blood that she now feels the need to conceal her hands all the time. It’s cruelly fanciful, but she is who she is. Mario’s sister, beautiful and charming, who once broke a chambermaid’s nose. His eyes had been liquid as he’d explained that he wanted you to know where he’d come from, and understand how determined he was never to return there. You’d thought of Jim, and you’d thought of Theo Galavan, and you’d kissed Mario, and said that you understood. God, how you understood. “I’m not marrying your family,” you’d said, your own eyes beginning to brim, “I’m marrying you,” and you’d kissed him and he’d kissed you, and you’d wanted so badly-  
“… And for you, Madam?”  
“Whatever she’s having is fine,” you tell the waiter, and then pull him back as he’s leaving, and ask him for a whiskey.  
“I’m nervous, too,” Sofia says, “I’ve never liked public speaking. Not that this is public,” she laughs, “Isn’t that silly?”  
The waiter brings your whiskey, and you’re straight enough to still need it, but drunk enough to down it without hesitation. “Why am I really here?”  
“Leslie, I assure you, I have no ulterior motive.”  
“This isn’t a last meal?”  
“I’m not my father,” Sofia says gravely, looking hurt, “I’m not the person you think I am.”  
You want to tell her that you know. That you’ve heard enough to know exactly what she is-- But you don’t. Somehow, you can’t.   
“None of us hold it against you,” Sofia continues.  
“You don’t know the full story,” you say bitterly.  
“I know enough. And I understand, Leslie. You’re not the only one who’s had to wage war against her own desires. You’re not the only one who’s done things she would die to undo.”  
“You don’t know,” you whisper, the whiskey hitting you, softening you further, making everything want to spill out of you. Which is good, because you don’t want to hold onto it anymore. You just want it to go away.  
“Now you understand,” she says gently, “why I need you, and you need me. We both have so much to make up for.”  
It was inoculation, you fleetingly think. All of Jim’s lies have left you unable to perceive anything but the truth. Sofia’s lying. You can see it in her eyes. You can practically smell it on her. Yet… didn’t you want to know how this was all going to end?  
“Thank you,” you say, looking into her eyes. She smiles sweetly, and you see Mario there, for a second, and you’re filled with such horror and regret that it compresses your chest.  
There must be some sort of release, in that crushing rush, because you find that you can go on quite easily. Your evening is pleasant. Sofia brought plans and outlines, and it unwinds into a perfectly civilized working dinner. Slowly, you begin to think that she’s for real. That she truly cares about the city. That there’s something in there other than murderous rage and empty selfishness. Can a person be more than one thing? Once, you thought that you knew the answer to that question. When you learned the truth, you’d felt humbled by it. Are you being humbled again?  
It’s past midnight when she says that she has to be on her way, for the sake of early meetings the next morning. She holds your hand. Dazed, you allow her to kiss your cheek. When she suggests meeting again the next night, it doesn’t occur to you to refuse.  
“I hope you don’t mind the same place,” Sofia says when you meet again, “They were so good about staying open late last night, and there were a few more things on the menu that I just had to try.”  
“Sure,” you say, “I don’t mind at all. I heard that their head chef trained with...” You don’t have to try to remember their name, because Sofia knows it, and yes, she heard fantastic things about them both, which is why she was glad that you suggested it. You talk about Gotham’s culinary scene, the places that she has to try, the places you’ve been dying to get into, the historical architecture of some of the buildings, the Prohibition-era bars, the hidden gems, the little pastry shops where you like to stop for treats. You let yourself like her. You let yourself see Mario in her eyes. For moments at a time, you let yourself pretend that you’re forgiven. You let Mario recede. You let him sink into oblivion. Now, you see nothing but Sofia, and you feel quiet and dark on the inside.  
You let her kiss you. When dinner’s long over, and dessert has come and gone, she’s sweet and buoyant with the liqueurs you’ve been drinking.  
“I’m sorry,” she says, not even pretending to mean it.  
“No apology necessary,” you say. Now, you kiss her. You pull her in close to you. You taste the rosewater in her lipstick and the liquor in her mouth. She holds you against her, far stronger than she looks, your bare shoulder under her velvet glove, and you think that there must be an iron fist in there. You’re breathing heavily, a stupid stuttering motion that makes you feel as though you could shake to pieces. Your head falls back, and she opens her mouth against your throat, like velvet against your pulse. She could bite into your flesh. She could make you bleed. For that, you clutch her against you. You return your mouth to hers, kiss her long and deep; take a stupid risk, and move her hand to your breast. Now, she kisses you slowly as she touches you through your dress. The press of her hand could be the only thing keeping your heart inside of your body. You’re going to fall apart.  
“Come up to my room,” she says.  
“You have a room here? Of course you have a room here.”  
“I told you; I have early morning meetings. I don’t want to drive all the way back home this late at night.”  
It could, actually, be the truth. It has the smell of truth about it. Like perfume that smells more like the rose than the rose, itself. You’ll let her lie to you. You’ll let her do anything she wants.  
In her room, she hands you a drink.  
“Do you ever take those off?” you ask, pointing to her gloved hand.  
She smiles. “You can take them off for me.”  
You down your drink, and take her hand in yours. Gently, you pull at each finger until it’s released from the glove. Then, you ease the glove down, over her elbow, her forearm, her wrist. Her eyes are on yours the whole time. You remove the glove completely, and look at her hand. You’d actually convinced yourself that there were literal bloodstains. But her hand is unblemished, and sweetly perfumed when you bring it up to your mouth. You kiss the center of her wrist. You kiss the mount beneath her thumb. She brushes her thumb across your lips. She holds up her other hand. Again, she watches you, cold, imperious, unreadable, as you undress her arm. This time, you let her slip her thumb into your mouth. It rests for a second on your tongue, and you let your eyes fall closed.  
She kisses you, and you guide her hands, now bare, now so hot and soft, to the back of your dress. Even without sight to aid her, her fingers are nimble, and she pulls down the zipper gently and slowly. The dress slips away, and you press against her, the material of her dress rough against your over-sensitized skin. She pushes the dress down lower, past your waist, your hips, and it falls to the floor. Her hands creep up your waist, over your back. She caresses your breasts, and you breathe out, obscenely loud.  
You place her hand between your legs. Her thumb presses in hard, and it shocks you, but it doesn’t hurt. You cry out, though; you let her think that she has hurt you. You want to see what she does. She smiles. She looks down, at her hand; up again, at your breasts, your throat, your face. She relaxes her grip, rubs her fingers gently against the skin left exposed by your underwear. She slips her hand inside your panties, and you spread your legs. She touches you idly, as though she were petting you. You’re acutely aware of how wet you are.  
“What do you want?” she asks. She could be talking about anything. Everything about her is still totally composed. Fear flashes through you. But what of? You’ve accepted that she might kill you. What else could she do to you? She slips her finger between the lips of your cunt, against your clit; your head falls back in a marionette’s motion. “What do you want?” she repeats  
“Just do that,” you exhale, and you hold her hand there. For a moment, you’re perfectly still, just letting yourself feel the way she touches you. “Touch my breasts,” you whisper. She puts her other hand on your breast, brushes her thumb against your nipple. She sucks the other, kisses slowly. She bites you. This time, you don’t bother to pretend that you don’t like it. You tell her to kiss you, and she does. The two of you wind together, her mouth on yours, your hips moving with her hand. When you come, it’s sudden and shallow. You need her again. You tell her. She keeps touching you, long slow stokes of her finger. You begin to ache, but you don’t tell her to stop. She makes you come again, orgasm mixing with the crackle of over-stimulation, bitter and bright.  
“Should I keep doing this?” she asks, “Or do you want something else?”  
“What else?” you gasp, then make yourself speak normally, “What else do you want to do to me?”  
She withdraws her hand, wipes it on her dress, then takes the dress off. “Take off my bra,” she says, and turns around. She sweeps her hair to the side. You take off her bra, and then her panties, when she tells you to do that, your hands lingering on her hips. Before you can do anything else, she walks to the bed, and sits down at the edge.  
“Take off my shoes,” she says.  
As though in a dream, you follow, compelled, magnetized, still, still transfixed though she’s already had you twice, still in need, in need of her. You kneel. You slip her shoes off of her feet. Without being asked, you gently move her thighs further apart. You look up at her. As always, her expression is gently amused, knowing. Absolutely terrifying. Leaning back on her hands, she moves her hips forward. You lick her cunt, kiss it hungrily. She lies back, and you go deeper, spreading her, sucking her clit. You take your mouth away, touch her with your hands. You watch her open around your finger as you slip it inside of her. Her hips jerk satisfyingly. In a sticky bubble of exhalation, she says your name. You fuck her, rub her clit, feel her tighten around you. You take away your hand, and go down on her again. You lick her in long, rough strokes until she comes. Your heart is beating between your legs.  
Breathless, weak, you stand. You stand over her, then get on the bed, cover her body with yours. Still breathing heavily, she pulls your head down and kisses her breath into you. She pushes her hand into your panties, and fucks you again. Orgasm whips your body. Eyes dry, you weep, all the same.  
Your blood feels like syrup; your flesh feels like velvet. You can’t move. You can’t think. You can only stay like this, wrapped in her arms, her body against yours. All you know is her breathing. Her heartbeat. The taste of her. The smell of her. The feel of her. Finally, she releases you slightly, and you take off your panties and shoes, which you’re still, stupidly, wearing. Her hand resting on your cunt, she kisses you, deep and long. She smiles. It must be because she knows that she can do whatever she wants with you. No- she could always do that. It’s because she knows that you’ll let her.  
What comes next, you still don’t know, but you’re beginning to feel the possibilities brewing in your bones. None of them are good. Like her embrace, you can feel the noose tightening.  
But all you want to do is kiss it.


End file.
